The Broken Man Read online

  CHAPTER 1 PIJU AND THE SLAVE QUARTERS

  Midsummer’s Day, Year Twenty- Seven of King Cail’s Reign

  My Master strikes me

  If I am rude,

  Misspell my words,

  Or burn his food.

  Since I must rhyme

  If I’ll be fed,

  I hope these words

  Will earn my bread.

  - Piju alet Kelpwa

  As the sun slid its first rays across the tall, white walls of Ard, Piju ran through its streets, his bare feet padding quietly across the smooth stones. Guided by the long shadows, he aimed his path generally south and west through the twisting alleys. Evading a small group of women carrying night soil jars, he picked a lane barely wider than his outstretched arms and pelted down it as nearly as fast as a doe could run.

  Midsummer’s Day was a feast day in the Ruad city, when even the peasants might taste meat. As a hunter, Piju ate meat nearly every day, but he’d never had a beautiful woman offer to cook for him. The slave quarters opened at dawn. He would not be tardy, but that was not the only reason he ran.

  The Children of the Blessed Mother, called the Daen, had accepted him into their colony, but his acceptance by the Daen wouldn’t keep him safe if he was caught out on the streets alone by someone who hated the Bolg. And that includes, he thought darkly, almost everyone else in Ard.

  He had been just a child when he apprenticed to the strange giant, and now he’d served him for four winters. Master Waylaid had chosen this ancient city for his studies of the Daen gods, so here he was, but this city was no place for a Bolg. Ard was ruled by the Ruad King, who kept the Bolg as slaves. Even more so, Ard was no place for a hunter, even one who’d never been officially apprenticed by a hunting master.

  His eyes darted left and right, checking the windows as their occupants started to stir. Some looked curiously at the fleeting figure, but his face was mostly hidden by the cloak’s hood. No trace of his hair color and very little of the color of his skin were visible beneath the dark cloak. Still, the green eyes of the Ruad were wary, untrusting of a sudden shape in the half-dark.

  The Ruad were afraid. They were afraid of the Wild Bolg and the Fomor giants, afraid of their own slaves, and afraid of the spirits they wouldn’t commune with. The Ruad were afraid of spirits they didn’t even believe in. What the Daen feared they killed. What the Ruad feared, they hid from behind great white walls and long spears.

  Piju had woken himself at first light, which wasn’t very hard for the young hunter, but the gates of Ard weren’t opened until midmorning. The Daen colony was up against the eastern wall, close to the East Gate. On a normal day, he just waited till midmorning, left the city by the East Gate, and came back in through the South Gate. The distance around the walls was a lot longer than the distance along the roads, but it was much easier to run. Today was special, though; he’d take the risk.

  Piju worried about attracting attention, but he found that he wasn’t the only young man or woman trying to hide their identity while scurrying through the streets. Dawn seemed to spawn a hundred of them. Most of those folk were wearing shoes, but he couldn’t abide shoes. Not to mention breeches and shirts. When he had been forced to dress as a town Ruad, he’d felt like a boar trussed to roast over a fire.

  The cloak hid his kilt and vest easily enough. His arms, covered in bright Bolg tattoos, stayed anonymous beneath its gray wool. He had shifted his knife harness to the center of his chest where it wouldn’t tangle when he ran. For the only free Bolg in Ard, it was best not to be recognized.

  The shadows were deep between the buildings, and the roofs nearly touched across the thin stone alleys. A cloaked figure suddenly turned the corner in front of him, heading north. Piju tried to stop, but they bumped near face to face. She started back, hiding her face behind the edge of her hood, afraid of being recognized. She had bound her red hair under her shawl and didn’t make eye contact. The nobleman’s daughter was very late in coming home.

  She passed beside him and Piju tried to mimic her bearing and motions, slowing his pace, shortening his gate and hunching less. Bolg and Ruad were the same size. He was broader in the shoulders, from many years pulling a bow, but if he kept his black hair and tattoos covered, he could pass. He affected a hunter’s camouflage in a human wilderness.

  The common buildings of Ard were made of stacked clay bricks laid around a wooden frame. Only the largest and nicest houses were made of the older, Fomorian marble. The roofs were beaten bronze. They were oven-hot in the sun and roared in the rain, but they served their purpose most of the days. The streets were also paved in brick and old stones, though mostly returned to mud and gravel in the alleys after the abuse of a thousand feet.

  At the end of the next lane were four men, all Ruad, cooking over a small brazier. Piju had smelled it from blocks away and would have avoided the crowd if he could, but he could not determine the direction of the breeze while between the buildings. He had turned down a street and, suddenly, they were in front of him.

  They were no bigger than he, but perhaps a bit thicker and older with full yellow beards where he had not started a mustache. Their pale Ruad faces were reddened by the summer sun where Piju’s had tanned. They seemed to Piju to be common working folk. Men who worked outside getting an early start before the heat rose inside the city walls.

  The men had long, thin pieces of salted ham draped across the bronze grate and were poking them with skinny bronze knives, barely keeping their fingers out of the fire, while they sipped well-watered wine from their hammered copper mugs. Their morning robes, like all Ruad clothes, were brightly colored if a bit worn. Their colors were those of the common folk, blues and greens, without a hint of red ribbon or other royal markings.

  Piju wondered what people worked at in the city. Who were their masters? From spending a life in the woods of Pywer, he had little concept of what kinds of work were done in Ard. It wasn’t village life, that was for sure, and they didn’t need hunters inside these walls.

  Piju walked quickly down the lane toward them; if he could slip past, behind them was a shortcut to Southern Gate Road which would save him backtracking three streets. The four looked up at the patter of feet, smiled, and tried to look friendly over their obvious morning surliness. Just as quickly, they saw that he was a stranger and dropped their smiles. Killers stalked the night, strangers were not to be trusted.

  One was slightly older than the others, with a touch of white in his beard and a bit of authority in his stance. His eyes were sharp, and he caught the suggestion of Piju’s bright blue eyes. He stepped forward, and two of the others stepped up, just to watch, but effectively blocked the entire end of the alley.

  “Boy,” shouted the older man, raising his hand to catch at Piju’s cloak “Who’s your owner?”

  Piju ran. He let his body fall backwards, away from the Ruad, spinning on his heel and dragging at the stones with his fingers as he came up to full speed. He leaned into the first turn, catching at the corner bricks with his left hand, and with a hard sprint was two lanes away and turning down the next alley before he heard them call again.

  They had, by the sound of them, come as far as the lane and were wondering aloud where he could have gone. Their cries of “Boy, come back,” didn’t inspire him to turn around.

  The Bolg were from the South end of Pywer and found only as slaves in the city of Ard. The Ruad never captured an adult male, but only took women and children, who lived their lives in the slave quarters and within the walls of this otherwise beautiful city. The high white walls and easy living—at least compared to village life—made the city a strange sort of prison, but the slaves were never free. It grated on him, constantly. As far as he knew, there wasn’t another free Bolg to be found in the north half of Pywer.

  Piju had no spirit tattoos; he had no markings on his face at all. Since he wasn’t even showing any dark hair, he shouldn’t have been seen as a Bolg, but clearly the older man had spotted him. The Ruad look m
uch the same as the Bolg, but are paler, with blonde or red hair.

  Luckily he didn’t recognize me, Piju thought.

  The old man must have thought some philosopher was keeping his slave out overnight, which was strongly discouraged by the nobles. Had the Ruad known it was Piju, he wouldn’t have asked about an owner. Piju had no owner.

  I do have blue eyes. I should have kept my gaze downcast, and he wouldn’t have been able to tell green from blue. I forgot the first rule of mimicry – every difference is obvious.

  By Ard’s south gate, along South Gate Road, the walls of the slave quarters cut out a sizable bite of the city. They were made of the same stacked blocks of white marble as the outer wall, glistening and beautiful if you didn’t know their purpose. There were ten of the good sort of Ruad houses on one side of the road, facing the slave wall and its gate. The walls of the slave quarters grew out of the city walls on their south and west corner. These inner walls cut off enough room for a hundred Ruad houses, but close to a thousand Bolg slaves lived there.

  The slaves had the worst stretch of the city wall; the night soil dump was on the other side and bad smells were common. There were homes for more than two thousand slaves in there, kept behind a strong gate throughout the night. There had been an uprising four years back and all the men older than twelve years of age had been put to death, but the citizens of Ard still slept better at night with the “evil” Bolg on the other side of a strong wall and a locked gate.

  Piju took a moment to rest and compose himself, so he wouldn’t look like he had run through the streets like a madman. He had just run completely across Ard so that he could get to the great doors of the slave gate at sunrise, when they first opened.

  Anticipation didn’t leave him thinking clearly, especially as this was an early morning after a late night. His Master had kept him up trying to understand poetry. It was no good just writing the words of languages and knowing what they meant, you apparently had to make them rhyme as well. Master Waylaid was a terrifying giant and a strict teacher. Piju appeased him as best he could, but couldn’t find a reason behind learning to read and write.

  Piju rarely thought about his goals, his plans for his life. As a child he’d wanted to be a hunter, but he hadn’t found a Master Hunter who would take him as an apprentice. His Master was an adopted Bolg, an ex-sorcerer, a priest of a Daen, and a Fomorian giant. Waylaid never discussed his own goals, save his constant task of laying spirits to rest. There was nothing he could teach that Piju thought was a reasonable path for a Bolg to take.

  Piju could not relate to the logic of the Ruad, the cold emotions of the Fomor, or the hot passions of the Daen. He had been rejected by his village’s masters and had never found another place, besides with Master Waylaid. Perhaps, he thought cautiously, he had found something among the slaves. Despite being Bolg, they were not much like village folk, but they were his people and they did seem to need him.

  The Eastern Gate Road and the Southern Gate Road crossed in the city square, a far shorter route than the one he had taken, but the palace gates were as locked in the morning as the city gates, or the gates to the slave quarters for that matter. He’d much rather have been sleeping with Keynan’s hounds than trying to rhyme in the Ruad language; it still made his brain hurt, but he couldn’t enter through the gates early enough to get to the slave quarters for breakfast.

  He did have one goal that he could focus on. She had promised him breakfast.

  Standing on the Southern Gate road, Piju looked across thick paving stones to the heavy wooden gates. The lane here was wide enough to march an army, which it had done many times before. During festivals and markets, the street would fill with tents and lean-tos, turning it into a miniature of the city as a whole. And, every third moon, they would march every slave out here to be counted. In the street they could stand ten across and two hundred deep with space for all the owners to show off their people. This pleased the Ruad king and his court for some reason. Piju hadn’t seen it yet. He felt that he wouldn’t be as amused.

  The gate to the slave quarters was nearly as massive as the one leading out of town. It was made of fire-hardened oak and bound with bronze but mostly warded with men. At dawn, the unit guarding the gate unlocked it, letting the slaves back into the rest of the city. Piju studied them for a few minutes, a basic caution to make sure he knew the guards.

  The guards wore the reddish-brown hard-felted wool robes and the sword harnesses common to the Ruad soldiers of every city. The two men on guard had their harness belts over their right shoulders and their swords tucked behind their backs. Their bronze-tipped spears were leaning against the wall. They were sharp, but the wicked backhook, the slave taker, was the part that most Bolg feared. The two guards sat on their stools and stared at the line of Bolg moving off to work.

  As the last Ruad-Bolg war ended more than a decade ago, the only new slaves were those born to it. The line was a mixed group of young men, none much older than sixteen, and women of all ages that could do work. There were slaves who had been here for more than thirty years, but the younger ones had been here all their lives.

  The guards pushed their bronze caps back, ducking their heads to let the wide bronze brim shade their eyes while they wiped their foreheads. Even in the cool early morning, Piju imagined that the heavy wool armor was hot and sticky. The guard on Piju’s right was named Ked, and he was well-liked among the slaves. The man with him was called Fat Tom, He was a bit of trouble, but less so when Ked was around.

  They didn’t fear him, at least not much. If they truly feared him, they might not allow him into the slave quarters, which was the whole point of his being here. Still, Piju wished he could overawe them like the Daen Priestess or his Master Waylaid. The Ruad were scared of the Daen’s power and Waylaid’s size, but they only feared his freedom. They didn’t worry about Piju, because they thought that they could take his freedom away with their vicious little spears.

  Piju pulled back his hood and strode across the street, giving them both plenty of time to recognize him. He called out and raised his hand.

  “Hey Ked. Hey Tom.”

  Tom straightened his hat and looked longingly at his spear. Piju tensed to run, but Ked laughed as though Tom was joking. Piju was fairly sure that given a chance Fat Tom would gut him with that sharp point.

  “Are things still quiet in there?” Piju asked.

  He settled himself, feeling the smooth stones of South Gate road cold under his feet. A faint breeze stirred the dust, and he breathed in the smell of Ard. It was a weird mix of sweat and crap, food and smoke: not all good and not all bad. He let the tension drain out of him. If he got upset with the guards, they would find a reason to keep him out of the slave quarters.

  “Good Feastday to you, Piju.” Tom nodded but didn’t bother to extend his hand. Recognizing a non-slave Bolg was one thing; treating him as an equal was another. He picked up a mug and pitcher, pouring himself a cup of water with a touch of wine to it, just enough to kill the water sickness.

  Ked turned back toward the line of slaves leaving the gates. The rush had already dimmed to a trickle, as most of the slaves did not cook their owners’ breakfasts. If they did, the owners might have needed to keep them in the town for the night and that had led to the riots in the past.

  “A good mornin’ to ya, Piju,” said Ked. His backcountry accent was terrible, but he didn’t pretend to be a better man than the Bolg he guarded. “I do thank ya fer calmin’ them down last moon. I was a-feared that we was goon to have a riot in there.”

  “I was worried awhile myself,” said Piju. “I’m glad that nobody got hurt.”

  Piju still didn’t know who had stolen the slaves’ meat, but he was sure it was a guard. Piju had replaced the stolen meat with fresh venison, but he kept his face blank when dealing with guards. He wanted to suspect Fat Tom, but it would have taken four men to carry out that ox. Tom didn’t have four friends.

  Ked focused on a man carrying a bundle, and withou
t being asked, the young man unwrapped it to show a set of fireplace tools.

  “Did Aebrey break his poker again?”

  Tom snorted, a thin trail of red water leaking from his left nostril.

  “Time and Tides, Ked, every time I take a drink, every time.”

  Tom wiped his nose on his padded sleeve. The slave, a stout fellow named Girum, was nervous under the guard’s attention but doing his best to grin and bear it.

  “I repaired it last night,” Girum said. “But, I can’t make it perfect. I haven’t the right fire for bronze.”

  Girum had flattened the broken ends, pinned them together, and bonded the repair with some mix of lead and tin.

  “Have Aebrey talk to a Master Philosopher, find some’n who’s got a crucible fire.” Ked’s face was completely impassive. “Bolg should na be doin’ metalwork. It’s bad for ya.”

  Piju had to agree with him. Half of the slaves’ troubles came from not speaking to the spirits of their ancestors. They didn’t have a real spirit talker. Spirits avoided most metals, so working bronze only made such problems worse. Of course, the other half of their problems was on this side of the gate.

  “Can I go on in?” he asked.

  Ked looked at him and totaled up the violations: 1) Wild Bolg with the slaves, 2) Weapons in the slave quarters, and Piju’s relationship with the girl called Roe could be as well, 3) attempted robbery of the value of a slave. Heck, for all he knew Piju was teaching them writing, philosophy, sorcery, or that weird Daen religion, all forbidden.

  “Sure, Piju, you be goin’ on in. I’ll be off aboot noe, but I’ll tell Odd Tom that you be een theya.”

  Piju liked Odd Tom but frowned and nodded his head. Odd Tom liked everyone to think the Bolg hated him. Odd, but that was normal for Odd Tom.

  He didn’t dally talking to Ked, but hurried through the gate and down the thin central street to the oven house. He laid his hand upon the wall of the oven and felt a throb in the palm of his hand. He clenched his fist, but the oven was hungry. It was due a sacrifice.